Markings
by drowning goldfish
Summary: Everyone was surprised when he was made Head Boy. Why he, a Malfoy, something synonymous with evil incarnate, was given the position was beyond anyone’s guess. Everyone, of course, except for her. She wasn’t Head Girl for no reason


Everyone was surprised when he was made Head Boy. Why he, a _Malfoy, _something synonymous with evil incarnate, was given the position was beyond anyone's guess. Everyone, of course, except for her. She wasn't Head Girl for no reason.

Things had changed and rapidly, though when one thought about it, things hadn't really changed at all. She was still in love with the red head, and she still stood by the Boy Who Lived. He still hated his father and knew he would one day serve You Know Who.

But the thing was, when you shared a room with someone, when you began to see that the things about them that you previously hated (things like being a stuck-up mudblood know-it-all or being a pretentious arrogant bigot) weren't really who that person was so much as defenses against their families, things changed, even if they had really only stayed the same.

That night they had spoken of their families had broken everything between them. He hated his yes, but wished for hers, for her parent's disinterest in her life, even though it killed her. She envied his in return, that they placed value in him, even if he resented it. It should have been surprising and it should have made the hate for one another grow, but it didn't.

They avoided each other as much as possible during the day, and told their friends that the other was barely ever in the Head Room, so it wasn't quite so unbearable. They'd make excuses every night, as early as they dared so as not to arouse suspicion, and then raced the path to meet the other, frustrated to find the other not yet present or elated when they were.

It was almost a sick angst for which they longed for one another, though both would deny it hotly if asked. The thing was that they knew that one day it would be undeniable, when he went into the service of the Dark Lord and she on the opposite. Their minds would not have protection like they did now, and so they did not allow themselves to ponder even the possibility of the potential.

They understood each other in a way no one else did. She saw the intensity of him, and knew it was only fear. He saw the fear in her, and knew it was only intensity. They were comfortable with one another, because there was no reason to not be.

He saw from across the Great Hall without even having to look in that direction that she was leaving her boys for their room. He listened half-heartedly to Pansy complain, saw Crabbe and Goyle shovel in their food, and knew that he lusted after her because no one else challenged him the way she did.

He waited until her boys left, before making the excuse of a headache and leaving. As soon as he knew the coast was clear, he sprinted the rest of the way. At the portrait hole he slicked back his hair and took a moment to regain his breathing before saying the password and sliding into the room.

She looked up from the book in front of her, though he knew she hadn't read a word. "Don't be so bloody obvious," he bit at her.

She gave him a lofty look, her prim nose sliding into the air, and returned to her book. He grinned, and stalked over to her, grabbing the book from her hands, tossing it behind her, and forced her to lie down on the couch pinned beneath him.

"Stop it," she said. Anger flared across his face and he tightened his hold.

"Are you afraid of me?" he demanded. She looked shocked.

"No," she said.

"Then why are you telling me to stop? You know I could hurt you so much worse than this. If you can take it, then don't tell me to stop," he growled. She looked up at him, at his harrowing ice cold eyes, and nodded softly.

He let her go. She sat up and looked in the fire. He lay down on the couch and watched her, knowing his intrusive gaze tormented her. After a moment, she turned to glare back at him, before lying down at his side. She turned on her side to face the fire, forcing him to turn as well. His hand snaked around her waist, and tugged her close to him. He sat up on one elbow, and pulled back her hair, exposing her neck.

"I want to mark you," he whispered, unsure why her skin looked as tempting as it always did.

"Don't be stupid," she said. "What if someone sees it?"

By someone, he knew she meant the Weasel. "You always wear your atrocious hair down," he snapped, and because she didn't protest further, he leaned down, his lips whispering across her skin. He bit her, teeth grazing her skin, and took slow pains to lick the sensitive flesh, waiting for her pulse to race before biting down harder. He didn't want to penetrate, only wanted to bruise her, wanted her to feel it every time she moved her head, though he didn't know why.

He knew the mark would take awhile to heal, though it wouldn't be permanent. He wanted this year to last forever. He pressed his arousal against her thigh and felt her body stiffen at the contact. Some days it felt as though he lived to make her uncomfortable. She elbowed him hard in the stomach and he moved his leg, unable to help the grin on his face.

"Damn it," he whispered sharply, but it pleased him in a demented way that he could never really understand. He was rather sure she knew it too, because he could see the amusement in her eye. He licked at her neck again, watched her eyes slide closed.

"Why are you doing this?" she gasped.

"So you know how weak you are," he growled, but they both knew it was only half true. She thought about how sometimes she was sure he knew her better than anyone. He knew her limits, knew her breaking points, knew just what she could stand before it was too much.

"I hope someday," she said in a soft whisper. "That if I die at the hands of a Death Eater, you're the one who kills me."

He bit deeply into her skin, holding the already tortured skin in his teeth, and looked up at her eyes pinched closed in pain. Slowly, as slowly as he could, he released her, and his tongue came out again to massage the hurt area.

His hand came around to lace its fingers with hers. He nuzzled her neck, listening to her hiss, but he knew she could take it. She hadn't told him to stop.

"Me too," he said.

AN: I've no clue where this came from. None whatsoever. I am suspiciously sure every loyal reader I have ever had is 1) going to hate me for this, and 2) going to be pissed I haven't posted anything regarding beautiful contradictions.

Eep.


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